


Damned If I Do You

by 13thDoctor



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Child Abuse, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Racism, Sexism, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 13:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12631578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/pseuds/13thDoctor
Summary: The first time Billy’s dad called him a faggot, Billy didn’t really know what he meant.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This fic in NO WAY attempts to excuse Billy's behavior in the show. Mostly, it explains why he acts the way he does, and helps him find someone who could change how messed up he's become. Comments and kudos are always appreciated! Enjoy!
> 
> I am SO THRILLED to tell you all that tinytoastie on tumblr is making a comic of this fic! Follow this link to be blown away: https://tinytoastie.tumblr.com/post/167645014855/so-im-going-to-be-working-on-a-comic-based-off-of

The first time Billy’s dad called him a faggot, Billy didn’t really know what he meant. He was ten, and he’d decided to grow his hair out. But he was poor; his playgrounds were made of scrap metal junkyards and dirt roads and glass-infested beaches. Dad’s girlfriend— _not_ Billy’s mom, no matter how many times she insisted he call her so—found Billy with a knot the size of a clam shell, and a wad of pink gum one day, in his growing hair. She shaved it. He cried.

“Faggot,” Neil Hargrove sneered.

Mom-not-mom giggled. _Snip._ Billy choked on snot. When he felt the sting of the scissors pressing into his skin, the blades gripped tight in his father’s fist, Billy stopped making noise.

The next day, Billy pushed a kid off a tall rock. Stifling summer air and its host of mosquitoes were the only other witnesses when Jack’s arm twisted further than Billy had ever seen an arm twist. Jack _howled._

“Faggot!” Billy yelled. The older boys skateboarding past on the street cheered, so he said it again. He didn’t really know what it meant, but now it was loaded in his arsenal for future attacks. It did enough damage that he treasured its ferocity in his mouth.

Billy was thirteen the first time someone besides his father hurled that word at him. He was thirteen; wearing clothes that he’d outgrown months ago, proud of the curls that he tucked behind his ears, and bumming cigarettes from boys in leather jackets outside the mall.

 _Mall_ was a generous name for the place. While Dad’s current girlfriend shopped, Billy pushed buttons on arcades games he didn’t have money for, stared longingly at burgers in the food court, and kicked trash on the curb outside when he got bored of everything inside. Surfers lingered at the tables on the mall’s grassy area. Staring, Billy felt heat rush through his face, his stomach. A little lower.

“Hey, faggot,” some blond guy said. He was grinning. “Need something?”

Billy looked around for his usual punk crowd. Finding them absent, he answered, smiling, “Yeah. You smoke?” Surfers, they were bad news. Too tan. Too beautiful. That was the last time Billy talked to one.

Jocks were safer. Billy didn’t fit in with them, not really—too many sharp edges, too much fondness for bands that screamed—but his body did. The silver stud in his ear confused them. At fourteen he was a troublemaking high school freshman who knew the best ways to sneak beer out of Mr. Hargrove’s fridge, though, so he was a welcome addition to the in-crowd. He ran, he lifted. Basketball came easy. The bruises his father’s hands left on his face and chest could be blamed on dropped dumbbells or working too hard. The first cigarette burn was a little more difficult to hide until he discovered what Dad’s fifth girlfriend’s makeup could do. He got caught stealing that. Before Dad could use that word, Billy said the shit was a present for his own girlfriend. Number Five took pity and let him have it. Billy kissed Susie Elliot in the school parking lot the next day just to sell the story.

She was pretty enough, all big brown eyes and brown Farrah Fawcett hair. Billy didn’t look at her when they kissed, though. It was easier that way. Billy and Susie held hands for a month after that. In the locker room, Billy learned more about sex than his dad had ever explained. When Billy broke up with Susie, he told the guys it was because she didn’t put out. The whole thing actually sounded great, masturbating especially.

So when he showered, Billy tried what the guys bragged over. His hand was sticky before he realized the person lingering in his mind was a long, lean surfer instead of a Playboy bunny. “Fucking faggot,” he growled. He pretended his tears came from the faucet instead.

Somewhere along the way, Billy had learned the meaning of that word. It became more than the best insult to throw at scrawny kids down the block; it was a special occasion word for his dad, but less specific than what he used to describe black people, or a word shouted out of bus windows at boys wearing too many colors. In high school, Billy learned how to use _faggot_ the right way. And that way was to keep it away from him.

Billy never actually met queers until his first high school party.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” two boys begged Billy as they scrambled for their clothes.

“What’s in it for me?” Billy leaned against the closed door, a little drunk. Sophomore year and he was already winning keg games.

“Christ, Billy.” He was so, so pale. “Two dollars enough?”

Billy took the money. He bought weights for himself at home, and condoms. Then he told the whole school.

As he pounded a kid’s face in behind the dumpster, egged on by the football team, he felt all the tension leave his shoulders through his fists. Every time he took someone apart, he put some of himself back together. Bruised knuckles and sore arms were his favorite things to feel. His curls grew longer and he combed them back just enough to be pleasing but not enough to let people know he cared. All that working out gave him abs and an ass he couldn’t help but notice in the mirror; he pretended not to care when girls eyed him in the halls.

He pretended to care too much when boys eyed him in the streets.

It happened first outside the mall. There was nothing he didn’t like about it: the way those eyes followed the broad line of his shoulders, the skin exposed by his open shirt collar. So he took the pleasure and turned it into fury. One punch, and that was all it took to knock the guy on the ground. He left it at that. A warning. And he spat that word at him with as much hatred as he could muster. His knuckles stung for days after, and he loved it. Pain became his best friend.

No one fucked with Billy Hargrove.

He dated girls like his dad dated girls—a different flavor every month. The more public the breakup, the more he made her cry, the more a new chick wanted him the next day. Billy got mean, and Billy got tough. There were no more tears when his dad struck him. He’d incite a good beating by mouthing off whenever he fantasized about kissing the quarterback. Dad had no way of knowing most of the bruises were planned and that Billy preferred them to the dreams that crept in at night.

Billy’s first fuck was at age sixteen beneath the bleachers during a homecoming game. She was a senior who’d fallen for his brash charm, and didn’t laugh when she realized he was a virgin. She didn’t tell anyone, either, even when Billy called her a slut in the middle of the cafeteria. Billy figured there were some good people left in the world--he just wasn’t one of them.

And then he let the school queer blow him in the locker room hours after school ended. Before that, Billy thought sex had felt good. This was on an entirely different level, his hands pulling though short hair, fire in his stomach, a boy who knew how to use his teeth, surrounded by the heady scent of male sweat. Billy bit his tongue to keep from crying out when he came.

Then the idiot had to go in for a kiss, Billy’s cum on his lips, and Billy felt so sick he almost forgot to call the kid a faggot as he was pulling up his jeans and sprinting up the stairs. Neither of them talked to anyone about what had happened in that locker room, even when it happened again, and again after that. Billy made it clear the guy would die if he spoke. Plus, after a little practice with the girls, he got good at giving. And Billy was certainly one to brag, so he was pretty fucking _spectacular_ at it if he could say so himself. Which he did, often. Though, as he aged, he let his hips do the talking and became the mean, silent type with an apathetic attitude and violent tendencies that gave him a popularity most guys only dreamed of. He was invincible.

When he got a car, girls practically lined up to take a ride. He parked on the beach, blasting rock and roll, and made them scream his name. He tried to convince himself that the softness of their bodies and the scent between their legs was so much better than hard lines and six-pack abs. Drinking and smoking helped. Working out helped more, and Neil Hargrove hitting him helped _even_ more. So Billy had his coping mechanisms, and the boys he fucked on the beach—never kissed, and that was a rule—had their good lay and were lucky if Billy didn’t push them out of the car at the end.

And then Dad’s girlfriend-of-the-month suddenly stuck around a lot longer, and Billy’s whole world fell apart. Because Susan came with little Maxine, picture perfect daughter. She could do no wrong for Mr. Hargrove, who doted upon her even as he shouted Billy into spending the night sleeping outside the mall.

Billy was seventeen when they moved to the shithole that was Hawkins, Indiana. His entire room fit into three oversized boxes that he stuffed into his own car. He punched through the wall of their old house before they left, and then they drove; Billy followed his father and stepmother’s car in his beast of a Camaro. Watching the surfers dodge waves, oblivious to Billy as he rode past, had him sweating, swearing, and shouting the words to his favorite song until his voice gave out.

Hawkins High was in desperate need of a King. Billy Hargrove was more than happy to provide. Falling in easily with the bullies, Billy chugged his way through parties and immediately had the popular crowd wrapped around his finger. He fucked two girls in his first week. He was so good at basketball that he thought the coach might cream his pants if Billy agreed to be on the team.

A couple weeks in and he realized he hadn’t filled an absence—he had pushed someone out. Steve Harrington’s hold on the status had been flimsy, closer to renting than owning as he was later told, but Billy nonetheless had staged the simplest usurping in the history of Hawkins High. Carol and Tommy told Billy he wouldn’t be challenged for the throne, that Steve had forfeited it because he was whipped by some chick named Nancy. Still, Billy felt threatened. Steve should _know_ who ruled this school now.

The first problem was that when Billy saw Steve, his heart stopped. All the breath _whooshed_ out of him and he felt like the dumb woman in one of Susan’s romantic comedies. With his whole body tense, his heart pounding, and his stomach tight, Billy tried not to panic. Instead, he did what he did best: Billy knocked Steve to the ground during a skirmish and threatened him. Steve, with all his infuriating benevolence, never fought back.

In the showers, real fear gnawed at Billy when Steve stepped under the showerhead next to him. His hungry eyes traced Steve’s lean frame before he could stop himself, but he supposed there was enough hatred in his look to keep him safe. Tommy mocked Steve about Nancy’s absence.

“Plenty of bitches in the sea,” Billy said, right after he stupidly called Steve _pretty._

Steve walked away to towel off. That night, Billy dreamed about his hands yanking that goddamn beautiful hair, about his fingers opening Steve slowly, about his cock filling him up until they both forgot how to breathe. He woke with wet sheets at 2 AM and made sure his dad hit him before he left for school later that morning.

Harrington disappeared for a while after that; Billy guessed it was to win Nancy back from whoever Jonathan Byers was. Not that he cared. He really, really didn’t. It was just that Steve Harrington was the first guy who he was kissing, not only screwing, in his dreams. And that scared the shit out of him.

One Friday afternoon, Billy was speeding in his Camaro when he saw Steve walking down the road. Carelessly, he drove closer, close enough that he could see Steve go on red alert. His hands came out of his pockets and twitched like they were used to holding a weapon in dangerous situations. Billy grinned. He turned the steering wheel further, and Steve jumped.

“Cut it out!” Steve yelled over the engine.

“Make me, Harrington.” Billy leaned over the passenger seat to wave. The Camaro veered sideways, burning up grass.

“Cut it out,” Steve repeated. His voice was lower this time, a little fear mixed in with the anger.

Heat rushed straight from Billy’s chest to between his legs. “Shit,” he said. He braked and cut the engine. Steve’s arms were crossed when Billy climbed out. He lit a cigarette while eyeing Steve up and down. Inhaling his first hit of nicotine for the day was the closest he got to calm.

“What’s the big idea?” Steve asked.

“Let’s go for a ride.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up. He laughed at the absurdity of Billy’s demand. “What, so you can murder me and leave me in a ditch? No thanks.”

Billy slammed his fist on the Camaro’s roof. He loved the car, but, desperate times… He smiled, the toothy, feral smile he reserved for flirting. “Get in the car, Harrington.”

“No. Fuck you.”

God, Billy’s pants felt a little tighter. Steve would probably object to being fucked on the hood of another man’s car, but that image bombarded Billy even as he slid back in the driver’s seat, defeated for now. He sighed. As the engine roared back to life, he purred over it, “Last chance. You really wanna walk home?”

“Uh, yeah, if the other option is you.”

Billy drove off at 60 MPH, his middle finger saluting the only real crush he’d ever had. This was going to be fun.

Billy spent all of Saturday working out and using his precious allowance money to buy new jeans and cologne. Susan and Neil insisted he bring Max along to the stores. He dumped her at the arcade with the ultimatum she be ready in an hour. She was, but she was also talking to _Lucas,_ as she so offhandedly mentioned, which pissed Billy off so much that he twisted her arm when they got home. “Stay away from people like that,” he told her. She had the sense to not ask what he meant.

“What’s with Harrington walking home?” Billy asked Tommy on Monday.

“Idiot’s car broke down. Plus, he’s been hanging out with some middle-schooler.”

“Gross,” Carol interjected. “Why do you care?”

“It’s not easy being king,” he answered with a smirk. Carol wasn’t immune to his charm; she swooned and Tommy glared but didn’t have the guts to call Billy on it. Billy chuckled. “Catch you two later.”

Steve Harrington was walking alone again. Billy had his foot ready to slam down the gas pedal before he switched tactics and rolled to a smooth stop beside Steve. “Get in.”

“Oh my God.” Steve whirled, frustration coloring his voice as he stomped up to the open window. “I’m not interested in this contest or whatever, okay? Stay away from me.”

“Or ‘whatever’? Man, you really know how to make friends.”

Steve scoffed. “Friends? Are you kidding me? You hit people for _fun._ I don’t want to be your friend.”

 _Could be more than that._ Billy rolled his eyes. “Grow up, Harrington, and get in the fucking car. I’ll drive you home.”

“What’s in it for you?”

Billy jerked back, the déjà vu a little too uncanny. He recovered quickly, though, cocking his head and lifting one shoulder indifferently. “Wouldn’t you love to know.”

“Oh my God,” Steve groaned. Yet his hand was on the door handle in a matter of seconds. He pointed straight down the road. “No games. Drive.”

“Yes, sir,” Billy mocked, and he thought Steve may have left then if he hadn’t gunned it.

“Shit!” Steve yelled. His white-knuckle grip on the dash was so lame that Billy’s cheeks hurt from laughing at him as they sped down the empty pavement.

Billy looked over at him and whooped. They were flying. This was freedom. Eventually they made it to the junkyard, which reminded Billy more of home than anything else in this godforsaken town, and he parked next to a decrepit old schoolbus. “Home sweet home,” he jeered, spreading his arms wide. He twisted to look at Steve. His hair was still perfect, which was annoying. Otherwise, he seemed incredibly windswept and freaked out.

“Are you implying I’m garbage with this little stunt? Ha ha, I get it, you’re very clever, not just a dumb rock like I thought, now _please_ take me home.”

“God, you are wound so goddamn tight, you know that? Relax.” Billy reached over and shoved Steve right in the center of his chest.

Steve looked disgruntled, mumbled, “Hey,” but never lifted his hands in his own defense. They sat in silence until Steve broke it. “What do you want from me, man?”

Billy, in lieu of answering, got out of the car. Steve gave a resigned sigh and followed. Billy had lit up and was lying on the Camaro’s hood like he was stargazing. Steve stood at his feet. He raised his eyebrows and poked Billy’s foot. A little thrill ran through him; that was the first time Steve had touched him.

“Truce,” Billy said. The word dragged itself out. It was the first time in his life he’d uttered it.

“What?”

Billy sat up, hoping Steve had watched the way his abs tightened when he moved. “Truce. You and me. This place, it’s kind of neutral, y’know, so I thought it was a good spot. You don’t want to rule the school anymore, so as long as you stay out of  my way, we’re good.”

“I already told you I didn’t want it.”

“I had to be sure, and now I am. So?” He extended his hand. Every fiber of him prayed Steve would accept it, if only to feel Steve’s palm slide against his bare skin.

It was as perfect as he thought it would be.

Billy blasted music on their way back and pretended he didn’t notice Steve staring at him, dumbfounded, until they arrived at the Harrington house. There, he turned to him and said, “I like you, Harrington. Don’t screw it up.”

Steve scrambled out of Billy’s Camaro. “It’s Steve,” he said. He smiled, and Billy didn’t, because he was too overcome to do much of anything. “See you around.”

“Yeah.”

‘Around’ ended up being the following Thursday night at a party. Billy’s ears were filled with people chanting his name as he chugged. Beer dripped down his chin and onto his chest. He knew who he’d like to lick it up, if the idiot would just crawl out of the corner he was so sullenly hiding in. Steve looked _miserable_ , nursing the same drink he’d been sipping from when Billy had looked over ten minutes ago. Not that he was checking on him; Steve happened to be a permanent fixture in his sightline. A distraction, really, that Billy was drunk enough to point out.

Stumbling over to Steve, Billy slurred, “You’re staring at me.”

Steve laughed, the first happy face he’d made all night. “No, Billy, you’re staring at _me._ ”

Billy was usually an angry drunk--being angry was the main reason he drank--but he felt, oddly enough, giddy right then. “Come outside.” He jerked his head toward the door in case the words weren’t clear.

“Okay.”

Later, Billy would try to recall how they found themselves sprawled out on their host’s trampoline, and it would be a blank spot in his memory. He would, however, distinctly recall the way Steve’s leg lined up so nicely with his, and how their words had all been whispered. He would leave that party lighter than he’d been in years, and collapse into a deep, undisturbed sleep.

The phone’s shrill ring hurt more than an open-palmed slap. Susan shouting, “Billy, darling, it’s for you!” possibly hurt worse. Billy’s eyes opened languorously. He woke to a deep pit of self-loathing in his stomach, damp boxers, and a headache pounding hard enough to rival a goddamn elephant stampede.

“Billy!”

Billy fell out of bed. He did a push up to stand before finding his way to the phone in the hall. Susan eyed him worriedly. “‘S’fine,” he told her. The receiver transferred hands. “Hello?”

“I have a free period. Basketball in the park?”

“What fucking park?”

Steve chuckled and told him the address. Billy was out of the house in fifteen minutes, a personal best for his hungover self. The Camaro was a death machine on the road that morning, swerving, speeding. It wasn’t going nearly as fast as his heart.

Arms crossed, wearing big sunglasses, bouncing a basketball on the sidewalk, Steve Harrington was a sight to behold. Billy wiped the grin off his face before he got out of the car and waved. Only after he checked to assure that they were alone did he run over.

“You made it!” Billy winced. Steve poked his forehead. “How bad is it?”

“I’ll cut your finger off if you do that again.”

“That bad, huh?” Steve struck the ground with the ball so that the sound echoed.

“Harrington--” Billy warned.

“It’s Steve!” he yelled. When he sprinted off, Billy chased him, a little more lumbering than he preferred. Still, he won their game easily. Steve was alright at basketball, but Billy had made it an escape.

They collapsed on the grass, breathing labored breaths, and Billy stripped as he went down until he was only wearing shorts. Steve’s t-shirt was sweat-soaked and yet he kept it on. Billy masked his disappointment well. “You know,” Steve began, and then caught himself. Billy shoved him so that he face-planted. Steve groaned and rolled back up. “Yeah, no, not telling now.”

“Fuck you. Come on.”

Steve hung his head for a few beats to catch his breath. His voice was quiet when he finished, “I like you, too.”

It was an echo of the day they made their truce, and it hit Billy right in his core. He swallowed and looked away, not wanting Steve to see. A few weeks ago he would have called Steve a liar and lashed out, but now he felt helpless as he searched for a response. “I don’t believe you,” he finally settled on.

“I can’t really prove it to you. It’s a feeling.”

The way he turned inward to say that brought his mouth so close to Billy’s that Billy almost gasped. Everything about this was so wrong. Tears threatened, so he scowled and rested his forehead on his knees. Neither boy said anything for a long time after that. Too stubborn to be the first to break, Billy waited until Steve stood to talk. “Hey, w--”

“No, Billy, you know what? No. I have class.”

Billy jumped up, stomped forward, and seized Steve’s arm in a grip tight enough to bruise. “Hey asshole, you don’t get to walk away from me.” He dragged Steve over to the basketball net and pushed him against the pole, crowding into his space, rough and controlling.

“You’re hurting me,” Steve protested. “Billy, Jesus.” He struggled to free himself.

 _You’re hurting_ me _,_ Billy wanted to say, _You’re tearing me apart._ He looked down at Steve before dropping his face into his shoulder. His lips ghosted over Steve’s collarbone and neck, then his cheek, then finally his lips, with nothing but air between them. “Wanna know how to prove it?” he murmured. He cupped Steve’s face in one hand, so gentle compared to only seconds before that Steve froze. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Billy snarled, and dropped him. “You tell anyone and you’re dead.”

Billy slammed his car door. He didn’t look back.

In school, Billy skipped the classes he had with Steve. He avoided him in the halls, walking outside to get to the gym. On the court, he pushed Harrington to the ground so many times that even his number one fan, also known as the coach, was forced to bench him for the period. He skipped the showers. And the dreams he had of Steve, of kissing Steve, woke him up with tears now. The only time Billy saw Steve was in those dreams.

Then Max had to go missing. Billy didn’t give two shits about the little bitch, but he couldn’t stand the fear welling in his heart when his father slammed him against that wall, so he left. Mrs. Wheeler was beautiful and simple enough that he had no trouble digging details and information from her willing lips. He felt hollow inside as he flirted with her, his mind occupied with how much easier his life in Hawkins would be if he wasn’t in love with Steve Harrington.

The Byers’ home was nothing remarkable, but something about stepping on the property creeped him out. It was colder out here than it was in the rest of the town; windier, too. Looking up, he caught a familiar silhouette in the doorway. He could have choked on his sadness.

“Am I dreaming, or is that you, Harrington?”

Steve’s reply was flippant, bordering on cruel. “Yeah, it’s me. Don’t cream your pants.”

Billy considered it a miraculous display of self control that he didn’t swing as soon as Steve walked over. If Steve wanted to use what he knew against him, Billy would at least use that hatred to his advantage. He stuck his tongue out and swung it in the air, destroyed the space between them, and flung his jacket to the ground. He blew smoke into Steve’s face and stroked his cigarette with deliberate, teasing slowness. He shoved him. “I told you to plant your feet,” Billy said, leaving him to recover. Steve couldn’t beat him inside the house.

Billy never thought he wouldn’t win. He pushed Steve’s buttons because there was no doubt in his mind he could lose. Lucas being there was too easy; he could focus all his rage on that scrawny kid and scare Maxine into submission in one go. Only when Steve’s fingers trailed down his chest, too intimate to scare him the way he intended, did he realize he’d already lost.

So he panicked. He’d known his father to be so angry he blacked out, and eventually he’d know it happened to him, too, because in that moment, his fists were disconnected with every rational and caring part of him. No matter how small those parts were, they always kept him from going too far. No part of him would ever have wanted to kill Steve Harrington the way his hands did that night.

They all left Billy drugged, bloodied, and bruised on the livingroom floor. He opened his mouth to tell Steve he wished he could take it back, kiss away all the pain, but all that came out was a strangled, incoherent noise, and then sleep hit him with the force of a freight train.

Billy’s final thought was that he deserved so, so much worse than this.

 


	2. Two

Max was shrieking. Billy, in his drug-induced haze, heard the words go by in slow motion. There were gaps where the sound just cut out completely. “It’s not fair! We had to… California… Hawkins… _ not fair! _ ”

In his head, Billy was yelling right back, “You don’t know shit about why we left Cali!” In reality, his mouth was pressed into a dry puddle of drool and he was only groaning. When he rolled over, every muscle screamed in protest, pain pulsing under his skin and his eyes. He couldn’t remember how he’d made it home. Searching for the memories was like dragging his thoughts through the undercurrent.

Eventually Billy managed a low, drawn out, “Fuuuck.” He scrubbed his hands over his eyes. His tongue was made of cotton and his skin was ice, but he was sweating. Everything ached. His feet tingled, weighed down by the boots he had slept in.

Dark curtains were drawn over the windows, so he had no idea what time it was. A jolt of absolute terror hit his stomach so hard he doubled over on his side, gritting his teeth. He had to get back out tonight and make Steve forgive him. No one ever hated Billy forever as long as he led with a smile. He’d start with bandaging up Steve’s face, icing the bruises, licking his wounds, some shit like the movies. His desire was sickening.

The door slammed open. Neil Hargrove stood in the new opening, seething. And then Billy was ten years old again, scrambling as far back as he could across the covers and clutching at the headboard while a woman frantically tried to placate his father. It was always useless; Neil’s fists connected with a solid _whump_ on Billy’s abdomen, and he gasped. Max stood in the corner, eyes wide. Billy looked at her, knowing blood covered his teeth, and smiled. She bolted.

Billy was done shedding tears for this man. He laughed instead, almost gurgling. Horrified, Susan covered her mouth and walked away, leaving Billy and his father to glare at each other. “Something wrong,  _ sir _ ?” Billy spat. Scarlet rivulets trickled down his chin and dripped onto the sheets.

“Explain to me why exactly some faggot drove you home.”

He spit on the floor. “Which one?” he growled. Neil backhanded him and he rolled away, cackling. These were only warning shots. If his father meant to hurt him, he would tell him like he’d done that night in California.

“Boy, you will show me some respect, or I will teach it to you.” A hand wrapped around Billy’s neck, pressing.

Billy sobered immediately after that, after some of the dull aches turned sharp and his mind began to focus again. Memories flashed vividly across his vision, but he closed his eyes and shook them away. He only needed one answer. “Was it Steve?”

His dad dropped him. “Poofy hair, messed up face. Did you do that, too?”

Sucking on his bottom lip, Billy swallowed the blood he tasted before replying. “Don’t worry, father dearest, kid’s not a faggot like your precious son.” He bounced off his bed and marched around his dad, but Mr. Hargrove was whirling him around again to point his finger menacingly right between his eyes before he could leave.

“I won’t let you humiliate this family again, Billy.”

Billy’s eyes went cold, and then blank. “Yes, sir,” he said, loud and clear. When his father finally released him, he sprinted to the bathroom to vomit away the last of the haze. His breath stank of nicotine, cheap beer, and dried blood.  


He sat back, stunned. Steve had driven him home. Stupid fucking Steve Harrington, who had almost died by his hands. Billy stared at the bruises and scrapes on his knuckles and hoped he’d feel the pain of it soon. It wouldn't hurt like it should; it wouldn't punish him the way he deserved.

He needed a shower.

Heaving himself off the tile, Billy went to the sink to wash out his mouth before stripping. His red shirt stood out like a bloodstain where it lay in a crumpled heap with his jeans. Only his necklace, rings, and earring remained as he stepped into the hot water. He rolled his shoulders into it, reveling in the way it stung his skin.

When he left the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist and his clothes balled under his arm, Max was waiting in his room. “Fuck off,” he told her instantly. He felt a sick sense of joy when any step near her caused her to take three steps back.

There were tears brimming in her eyes. But Max, like Billy, had learned long ago not to cry in the Hargrove household. Through gritted teeth she hissed, “You ruin _everything._ ”

“Yeah, well, he wouldn’t have had to drive me home with my dad here if you hadn’t stuck a needle in my neck, bitch.” Billy pulled clothes from his closet with deliberate slowness, his back to his stepsister. “You could have killed me. You don’t think we’d be moving if you’d murdered me?”

“We’re not moving,” she corrected him, bewildered.

Billy lost a bit of tension in his shoulders. “Then what the hell are you so upset about, crybaby?”

“You got me grounded,” she answered, as if it was a death sentence. Billy supposed, for someone who had real friends, it might feel that way.

“Oh yeah? So you’re what, gonna sneak out to visit your nerd squad?” he sneered. Looking over his shoulder at her, he asked, “Need a ride?”

“You remember what I said, don’t you?” she asked. Her voice was bold, unflinching.

“Sure do.” His voice was low and scornful. He wanted to remember the ride here, not the embarrassing moment of a thirteen year old girl almost crushing his balls with a baseball bat.

“Good.” Abruptly, she left. Billy had to follow her to close his door.

Left alone with his thoughts, Billy pressed his palms flat against his face and released one long, furious scream that brought him to his knees. That raw sound rang in his ears long after he slapped his hand over his mouth to silence it. No one came running. Standing, he reached across his dresser to take the lamp and throw it across the room. Its base shattered satisfyingly when it hit the opposite wall. Still, no one in the house moved or breathed, save for Billy, who gripped the loose edges of his bikini-clad girl’s poster, ripped it down, and slammed it into the trashcan.

Billy didn’t know what _normal_ was, but after that night life fell back into that routine that seemed normal in Hawkins without him. He went back to school, but he wasn’t really there; he drifted through the halls looking for Steve before slowly becoming aware that Steve was avoiding him. Not that he deserved anything else. Tommy and Carol congratulated Billy on the mess he made of Steve’s face. News spread that he’d jumped Harrington, and that maximized his popularity. He strutted around, sleazy, smirking, and drove three hours out of town to pick up guys at clubs that looked like someone he wanted to pretend he was forgetting.

Twelve packs of cigarettes, two black eyes, and one drunken bender later, a month had already passed. Billy spent that time at parties and in his Camaro. He got high under the bleachers. He didn’t hang around Steve Harrington’s locker anymore. When they had class together, Billy sat in the back and stared at his head until he had the shape memorized, but they never talked, never made eye contact. Billy knew he’d blown it.

Maxine being grounded did not interfere with the Snow Ball. Billy laughed so much he thought he might puke when she came home from school with the flyer and permission slip for that stupid middle-school dance. Susan was so excited to pretty her little girl up and Neil was more than happy to praise the pair of morons. Billy steered clear, blasting Metallica in his room so he didn’t have to hear them chat about what shoes Max should wear.

Then, one day, as he passed them in the kitchen, he was unwillingly pulled into it. “Do you want your brother to drive you?” Susan asked her daughter.

Billy stopped dead. Max went wide-eyed, sputtering out excuses even as Billy tried to do the same. Susan was blissfully unaware--often Billy thought willfully ignorant--of her children’s feud.

He rolled his eyes. _No one_ lived near this dump. Max, politely, listed off her group and their transportation. Billy had tuned out, was about to walk away, when he heard “...and Steve’s driving Dustin…”

“I’ll take her,” Billy interrupted.

He wasn’t even finished the offer before Max shouted, “No!”

“It would be such a help, Billy,” Susan appealed. Max looked betrayed. She flipped Billy off as Susan turned to her stepson. Hesitantly, she added, “As long as you go get her when the dance ends.”

“Sure.” That was as close to a promise as Susan was going to get, and she accepted it.

Billy spent almost an hour getting ready that night. He combed and styled his hair, slid into his tightest jeans, and wore a collared blue button-down open to his naval. He used his best cologne. He stole some of Susan’s jewelry polish and rubbed at his pendant and stud until they shone. When he passed Max undergoing whatever procedure it took to tame her frizzy red hair, she glared. Billy couldn’t ignore the regret clawing up his chest.

Though, salvaging his relationship with Max wasn’t his priority tonight. Tonight was the night he’d win Steve back.

Steve hadn’t ever been his, but it was a nice thought, and certainly a pleasant distraction, as he drove Max to Hawkins Middle. He played her KISS--she enjoyed it, even though she tried to hide it. When he drummed along with it, singing off-key at the top of his lungs, she actually laughed. He didn’t exactly hate it.

As she climbed out of the passenger seat, Max asked nervously “You’ll pick me up, right?”

“Don’t be late,” he answered brusquely. “And don’t bring Lucas.” She shut the Camaro’s door so forcefully that the whole car shook.

Billy parked. Then, he waited. He was halfway through _The Four Horsemen_ when Steve’s Beemer appeared in the drop-off zone. Billy squinted to see. Seeing Dustin’s hair all done up made him chuckle to himself. When the kid finally left and Steve drove off, Billy followed slowly. He left a couple cars between them so he wouldn’t be too obvious, and went the speed limit. It made him antsy.

Steve pulled off the main road to go to the quarry. Billy had been there a few times to smoke weed and just fuck around when he didn’t feel like going home. He knew he’d been caught now, though; there was no way Steve hadn’t seen his monster car in his rearview.

Sure enough, Steve cut the engine and headlights as soon as he was parked, storming out of his Beemer to stand in front of the Camaro, arms crossed over his chest. And shit, Billy felt nervous. He scowled. “Move, Harrington, or I’ll run you over.”

Steve saw right through his empty threats. “Why are you following me?”

Billy revved the engine so Steve had to repeat himself. He liked how Steve looked when he was pissed off. “Quarry’s public space.” It was pretty amazing Steve was even talking to him, even more amazing that he was suddenly coming around to the driver’s window and slapping his hand over the glass. Smiling, Billy rolled it down. “Yes, pretty boy?”

“Don’t be a tool.”

Billy leaned closer, his eyes glinting when Steve didn’t flinch away. He licked his lips. “I just couldn’t stay away,” he jeered, all wide-eyed as he imitated some lovestruck girl. “Oh, baby, I want you, I _need_ you.” Switching back to his normal voice, he shouted those last words and shoved open the Camaro door, sending Steve to the ground. 

Steve groaned. “You’re an asshole.”

Said asshole stood over him, one hand on his belt, the other itching for a cigarette. In a few seconds the adrenaline wore off, and Billy was left with nausea and nerves. He grabbed the pack on his dash and drew one out with shaking fingers. Once the cigarette was lit, he inhaled it greedily, already calmer. He dropped to his knees, straddling Steve like he was about to hit him. “Am I?” he asked.

Balanced on his elbows, Steve snapped, “Yes.” But he didn’t try to get up.

Billy rolled his shoulders as he considered Steve. “I dunno, not like I used your secrets against you.”

“No, just your fists,” Steve countered dryly.

He sighed, stubbed his cigarette in the grass. “Look, I’ve got beer in the trunk. You wanna kill a few cans and forget I tried to…” Billy trailed off, not really ready to admit aloud exactly what he’d tried yet. Because trying to kiss the only guy in this small town who could stand him was on the top of a very long list of dumb shit Billy Hargrove had done.

To his surprise, Steve accepted. It was a small, “Sure,” an awkward struggle to slide out from underneath Billy, and a head tipped toward the car. They sat against the Camaro’s front wheels and toasted, laughing, to the Snow Ball. Steve’s movements were jerky. There was just enough space between their bodies that any attempt to touch Steve on Billy’s part would be embarrassingly obvious. Even when he offered Steve a joint, he jerked his fingers back before they could linger for long.

Ten minutes crawled into an hour. Billy thought he was going to suffocate if Steve didn’t say something--anything--soon. He hung his head and counted grass blades.

“I’m not mad at you for trying to kiss me.”

Billy’s head snapped up. Heart hammering, he watched Steve’s cheeks hollow around their second joint.

“I freaked out, with the kids. I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have said a lot of the stuff I did.” He took a swig from a beer can and grimaced. “I  _ am  _ mad at you for trying to kill me,” Steve added, almost nonchalant in the way he said it, as if commenting on the weather.

Billy wondered how many times Steve Harrington’s face had been smashed in. He turned his face out to the quarry so Steve couldn’t see his eyes. “Well shit, here I am anyway, saying sorry for both.” He banged his elbow against his car. “Shit.”

“Hey.” Steve knocked their knees together. He put the joint out. “Thanks for giving me some space.”

“That was all you. I was at your locker when that bell rang every fucking day.”

Steve’s hand touched his chin, bringing him back to face him. “I know,” he admitted softly. He laughed, a short bark of a sound that made Billy jump. “I kept my books in Nancy’s locker.”

“No shit.” Billy chuckled. “The princesses had to share their space? Sounds like a war waiting to happen.”

“Asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Steve scoffed to hide his amusement. He squinted up at the stars. “I should probably go get Dustin.”

Disappointed, Billy curled his lip, flicked his lighter, and said nothing. He wanted Steve to stay--he wanted Steve to do a lot of things--but he sure as shit wasn’t going to ask him to stick around. There was a fleeting moment where he considered sticking Steve in the passenger seat and just driving out of Hawkins, and then he laughed cruelly at himself. A question popped into Steve’s eyes.

“Hey, man, I get it, just don’t hang with me for an hour next time and get my hopes up.”

Steve stood and offered Billy his hand. Billy brushed it away to stand on his own. Rolling his eyes, Steve fiddled with the Beemer’s keys. “I promised a kid a ride home, I’m not ditching you. Didn’t you bring Max?”

He’d forgotten about her. “Yup,” he answered apathetically. A question that had been nagging at him spilled out. “Hey, did... you drive me home that night?”

“Yup.” Steve didn’t offer to explain why. He never even offered to explain what he’d been doing at the Byers house, either. The conversation lulled until Steve spoke again. “So… I have a request.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Apologize to Lucas, tonight, with Max there, and we can hang.” Steve repeated it quietly to himself to make sure he’d said everything on his list. Then he looked expectantly at Billy.

Billy kicked at the ground. He hated that kid, hated his guts. It was his pride, and years of his dad in his head, telling him why he should, that made him grit his teeth and shake his head.

Steve shuffled in place. “You wanna try that answer again? Last chance.”

Not someone used to second chances, Billy took that one. And when he was leaning against the Camaro in the school parking lot and Max saw him, her nostrils flared. “I’m not late,” she insisted, hand already reaching past him to the door handle.

“Now hol--wait a minute, would you?” He didn’t touch his step-sister.  She flinched away anyway. Shoving down the swell of frustration that caused him, he looked at her and pressed his mouth in a firm line. “Go get Lucas.”

“ _What_?” She was terrified. “No. No, no, no no.”

Billy was about to yell when the kid appeared outside. “Sinclair!” he called.

Lucas looked like he wanted to bolt until he saw Max. He lifted his shoulders, took a deep breath, marched over. “Hargrove,” he answered coolly, like they were somehow equal, like this was some cowboy western showdown. He was shaking.

“I…” Billy shifted his weight from foot to foot, a little lost. Finally he said, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re  _ sorry _ ?” Lucas and Max squeaked in unison.

He shrugged. “Sure, I’m sorry. For every goddamn thing I did that night, okay? I’m so fucking sorry.” Clearing his throat, he looked over to the empty football field as if there was something else to draw his attention. Hargrove, playing it cool. There was a lump in his throat the size of an ice cube.

“Uh, apology accepted...? But also, stay away from me.”

Billy sneered, but he could deal with that. They shook hands. And then he drove Max home, playing her more KISS, laughing when _she_ sang along even though her voice was decent. He fell asleep smiling for the first time in a month.

As he closed his locker on Monday morning, he was shocked to see Nancy Wheeler glaring at him. “Your highness,” he mocked. He moved to walk past her, his English book shoved under his arm, when her small hand jabbed his chest. He looked down at it, trying to reconcile what he saw and what he knew couldn’t be happening. “Don’t touch me,” he cautioned.

“Just so you’re aware--I know how to use a gun.” Her voice was strong, steady. Billy could definitely see what Steve saw in her. He grinned. “Don’t smile at me,” she said, her nose crinkling with disgust, “pay attention. I can and will shoot you.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” he purred, “but this is happening because?”

Nancy groaned as if Billy was being deliberately dense. When she stalked off, he frowned after her, shrugged, and then walked in the opposite direction for English. The interaction didn’t cross his mind again until he saw Steve in the halls between periods, relocating lockers back to the original. Billy wouldn’t have even moved as fast in a basketball game as he did to be at that locker by the time the bell rang at the day’s end.

Steve was greeted by a smirk, spread over the lips of a boy whose heart was beating a little too fast to let him be effortlessly charming. Billy said, _Am I forgiven?_ , but it came out, “Hey.”

“Hey. How was class?”

Billy’s stomach was in knots. He’d never really had friends; he’d collected followers, spineless sheep, or whatever team of douchebags he played basketball with for his school, but friendship was new to him. He wasn’t sure what to say besides, “Sucked. Yours?”

“Same.” Steve smiled. “We’re gonna be late for practice.”

“We might be.”

“Might?”

Steve had barely finished the question before Billy, swinging his bag onto his shoulder as he went, pushed him into the locker and bolted down the hall toward the gym. Cackling, he craned his neck to see Steve already following. He slowed so he could catch up, and then they were racing, trying to trip each other, breathless with the sheer joy of it. Billy wanted to smash Steve against the locker room wall and kiss him until they were dizzy.

Instead, they calmed themselves and changed on opposite sides of the room. Billy dealt with Tommy while Steve dealt with being alone. Billy sure as hell wouldn’t have handled losing his crown with as much grace as Steve, but then again, Billy didn’t know the whole story. He figured Steve’s heroism probably got him knocked down. White knights weren’t allowed to rule Hawkins High.

In the gym, Billy stripped off his shirt right after warmup. There was a collective gasp from the cheerleaders in the stands, so he strutted into position.

“Really?” Steve asked. He brushed his fingers through his hair before crouching.

“You want some of this, Harrington? I’ll waste you!” he bellowed across the court. Tommy chortled and high-fived him, while Steve snorted and waited for the coach’s whistle.

Billy’s skin was on fire every time he touched Steve. He followed him relentlessly, getting behind him and pressing his chest against Steve’s warm back. Blaming his red face on his exertion, he ran until his heart was in his throat, and then ran some more. He pushed Steve for old time’s sake, and stuck his tongue out at him where he lay glaring on the ground.

“Asshole.”

He grinned wickedly. “Yeah, yeah.” God, Billy was considering mauling him right there on the gym floor. So he flipped Steve off and kept him at arm’s length for the rest of practice. If he didn’t cool it, he’d get hard, and that certainly wasn’t easy to explain.

Once the coach called, “Hit the showers,” the panic settled in. Billy was lightheaded as he followed Tommy back to the lockers, desperate to avoid seeing Steve in the shower. Already having stripped down to his gym shorts, Billy was the first to step under the hot spray. Although he usually took the time to breathe in the steam, to feel each droplet on his skin, that day he barely washed himself before wrapping a thick towel around his waist and darting back to the lockers to dress.

“Hey, Hargrove, kegger tonight!” Tommy called after him. “What’s the big rush?”

“Gotta get Max,” he yelled back, annoyed enough to be convincing. “But I’ll be there.”

Billy was just starting to feel a buzz when Steve drew him away from the keg games at the party. When they were far away from the crowd, standing on the host’s previously-undiscovered balcony, Billy grinned. “Just couldn’t stay away, could you?”

“You left this at practice.” He’d been holding something against his chest, and unfolded it to reveal Billy’s leather jacket. Billy snatched it back, pulse pounding, and checked to see no one was watching them. “Relax,” Steve said. “You can always say I stole it.”

“Thanks,” was all Billy could manage.

Steve sighed. He pushed his hair up. “Look, Dustin told me Lucas told him that you apologized. And I liked being around you today, before practice.” He shrugged and looked off, flushed. “Maybe a little during.”

Billy grabbed his belt and stood with his hips jutting forward. He didn’t miss how Steve’s eyes lingered. “What are you trying to say, pretty boy?” He licked his lips

“I’m saying if you can manage not to be an asshole until Friday, we can ditch last period and go to the mall together.”

“Did you just ask me on a date?” Billy was no longer mocking; genuine shock ran through him, heat in his face and ice in his stomach, followed swiftly by fear. 

Steve stepped into his space. “I’ll see you Friday.”

He left, and Billy fumbled for a cigarette as he leaned against the closed balcony doors. His lighter was in his jacket. His jacket, which smelled like hairspray and sweat and cologne that did not belong to him. Billy lifted it to his face and inhaled once. Then, he put it on and rejoined the party. Steve was nowhere to be found.

Friday arrived slowly, blowing into the week like an afterthought for everyone suffering in Hawkins’ snow-streaked winter. Billy still sauntered around in tight jeans and an open shirt like he couldn’t feel it. He could. He fucking hated this town, everything in stark contrast to California sunshine, but he needed to keep ruling it, so he sucked it up and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Besides, it wasn’t like the Hargroves had money for a winter coat for their fuck-up son.

Friday was the start of winter break. That meant freedom to Billy in more ways than one. When he told Tommy he wouldn’t be at the Friday night party, Tommy gaped, and Billy just brushed past him to meet Steve in the parking lot. “We doing this?” Billy asked him.

Steve drove his BMW and Billy followed in his Camaro. If he’d known how to get to the mall, he’d have passed the idiot; Steve drove the speed limit, which was another item on his admittedly short list of faults. Billy drove recklessly and like he owned the road, another item on his mile-long list of faults.

Billy cut his engine the moment he pulled into a free spot at the Roane County Mall and then found the Beemer. Drumming on the roof, he spoke around an unlit cigarette. “Let’s go,” he demanded. His brain was working a mile a minute, piling on reasons he shouldn’t be there, why he shouldn’t be with Steve. Hissing that hated word through every thought.

“Chill out,” Steve retorted, but he was smiling, smiling and wearing those big sunglasses that, combined with his hair, made him look like a wannabe movie star.

Billy was screwed.

They mostly walked around. Billy was too poor to buy anything, and Steve had more fun making fun of the outfits on the mannequins than actually going into stores. “You’d look great in that,” Steve said on a laugh, pointing at a jazzercise leotard. Billy socked him in the shoulder.

He refused to let Steve pay when they got dinner. His face was blank when he had to hand over crumpled bills for his own meal but Steve only handed the cashier a shiny credit card for his. They ate in a tense silence until Steve’s foot poked at Billy’s beneath the table.

“Hey,” Steve murmured.

Billy glared. “What.”

“Finish your food. I have an idea.”

“Fine.” Steve’s giddiness was contagious as he dragged Billy near the arcade. Billy was about to protest--he had no intention of spending his Friday playing video games--when Steve pulled him into a photobooth. “What are you, a teenage girl?” he scoffed.

“Shut up.” He adjusted his shirt and collar and looked at the camera, then at Billy. “This is serious business, man, act accordingly.”

His eyes were bright enough that Billy shrugged and complied. As the camera flashed, he smiled into it, but then he started watching Steve more than paying attention to what he was doing. Steve must have felt his sudden stillness, because he turned to ask about it, and their faces were so close in that moment that Billy didn’t know how to speak.

So Steve spoke enough for them both. “Are you going to kiss me, Billy?”

Billy’s stomach lurched like he’d jumped off the quarry cliffs and was free falling. Before he could talk himself out of it, or convince himself that it was wrong, he pressed his lips to Steve’s. He was shy until he wasn’t, tangling their tongues, biting Steve’s mouth. Billy gasped. Steve tasted like coke and KFC. Billy could have devoured him, and did his best to, until Steve broke away.

“We should grab those pictures. They print outside--”

Horrified, Billy scrambled over Steve to rip aside the curtain and find the photos. No one glanced his way as he yanked them from the slot. Steve had joined him by the time he was breathing normally again and was surreptitiously sliding his hand into Billy’s back pocket. He started to say something suggestive in Billy’s ear but stopped when he saw their pictures.

Billy’s hands shook as he held them. The first few made them both appear younger; they were just dumb kids pushing each other around. Then they’d locked gazes, and Steve had whispered that question. When they’d kissed, Billy’s eyebrows were drawn tight, and there was a heart-wrenching desperation in the way he held onto Steve.

“You look--”

“You call me beautiful and I’ll kick your ass.” Blood rushed in his ears. He could still taste Steve on his tongue. And this--this was living proof that he’d kissed him. _Him_ , another guy. The pictures trembled in his fingers. “Take them,” Billy murmured. “I can’t bring these home. I can’t…” He shook his head.

Steve’s mouth quirked up at the corners. “What if we both go back to my place and find a place for them?” He touched Billy’s arm like no one was watching.

Feeling as if his chest was about to burst, Billy asked, “Do you think you can handle this, princess?” His heart was racing, perspiration beading on his neck and chest, but his voice was steady. It was all show. Steve probably saw right through him as always.

“Yup.” Steve chuckled, bit his lip. “Asshole.”

Billy felt his lips curl up in a smile. “Yeah, yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I finish a chapter, I think, "This is where I leave them," and then I end up writing again a couple days later. So we'll see if this is where I actually leave Steve and Billy. Thank you to everyone who read the original story; this is for you and your kind comments.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK (by popular demand)! Thanks for all the comments and kudos, folks. I adore you all. Enjoy!

Billy was full of nervous energy as he followed Steve’s BMW back to his house. His fingers drummed an inconsistent beat against the steering wheel, ignoring the Def Leppard song blasting through his car radio. With his body thrumming and his stomach tight, Billy counted down every mile marker and tried to ignore the steady increase in size of the houses around him. They made him feel small, these mini mansions and massive properties, all with long driveways and immaculate lawns. He felt stupid. He thought about turning around.

Then Steve clicked on his turn signal and it was too late to back out. Billy muttered “Shit, shit, _shit,_ ” as the Harrington house came into view. His heartbeat frantically beat out a warning: _You don’t belong here._ But he parked and swallowed his panic when he opened the Camaro door. Billy Hargrove wasn’t a fucking coward.

The Beemer beeping startled him. Steve laughed, though not unkindly. “C’mon, I’ll show you around.” He jangled his house keys invitingly. Billy followed him to the front door, hands shoved in his pockets, shifting his weight between feet. As the locks clicked, Steve said, “Relax.”

Billy glared. They went inside, and his mouth fell open; Steve’s house was giant, all open space and designer furniture and fucking _stairs._ Steve deposited his keys and the photobooth strips on the dining table, and Billy made a weak noise of protest. “Your parents?” he clarified.

“They’re in Europe while I’m on break.” He grinned, spread his arms wide. “The house is mine for two weeks.”

Billy didn’t think Steve knew how lucky he was, or he at least didn’t like flaunting his privilege. That was good. He walked over to Steve, grabbed his shoulders, and kissed him messily. Steve leaned into it, and then they were making out against the fridge, Billy’s hands in Steve’s hair and his lips on his throat. Billy grabbed at Steve’s ass, grinding their bodies together. Something outside caught his eye, though, surprising him enough that he reluctantly pulled back. “What the fuck is that?” he asked.

Steve tensed and looked to where Billy’s eyes had strayed. His body was braced for a fight as if he expected enemies to leap out of the dark. Billy marked that down to ask about later as Steve answered, “Right, yeah. Yeah, we have a pool.”

“ _ We have a pool _ ,” Billy sneered. He imitated all the rich kids in Cali who used to make those flippant comments like they were just listing the different cereals they had in their houses.

Luckily, Steve chuckled at himself. “I’m supposed to cover it tonight.” Opening the fridge, he offered, “I’ve got beer if you wanna head to the deck.”

"Sure."

The whole day felt surreal, starting from their kiss at the mall and winding down here next to an in-ground pool and an empty house. Left alone with his thoughts, Billy had to pace, but he stopped when he heard the deck doors slide so he could watch Steve. He pulled two pool chairs together, sat their beers on the ground, and went to fiddle with some control box on the wall. Soon, steam rose from the water, and Billy realized the pool was heated.

“You really are a princess,” he purred. His eyes widened mockingly. “Should I be afraid of any magical curses?”

“Do you ever shut up?” Steve asked happily.

“You could always make me,” Billy suggested, which resulted in a few more minutes of kissing that Billy thought might cause his heart to beat right out of his chest. When they eventually broke apart--more for needing air than wanting to separate--Steve spread out on a pool chair and Billy remained standing. He chugged half his beer in one go while Steve sipped.

The silence was fine, for a bit. It gave Billy room to think, and he wondered if Steve knew that he needed that. He probably did. He looked completely relaxed where he was, stretched out on his back, legs just far enough apart that every time Billy looked his mouth went dry. Once he finished his beer, he turned his attention away from Steve and to the water. “Want to go for a swim?”

“Yeah.”

Steve took of his shirt before Billy said, “Close your eyes."

Steve’s nipples were hard in the cold. He sighed. “Why?”

Billy took his time to leer. Then, “Don’t you trust me?” His voice was low and hungry.

Steve snorted. “Hell, no.”

Billy shivered. He lifted his chin and licked his lips. “Do it anyway.”

Meeting Billy’s gaze with his own challenge, Steve said, “Make me.”

In an instant Billy sauntered over and arched over Steve, curling his fingers around the pool chair’s flimsy arms, pushing Steve’s knees apart with his own as Steve’s body yielded to his. He leaned in, watching Steve’s eyes watch his exposed skin. “Close. Your. Eyes,” Billy ordered. With each word his lips moved closer to Steve’s ear. He moved one hand to caress Steve’s bare chest, smiling when Steve gasped.

“Ooh--kay. Okay.”

Billy smirked. Then, suddenly and smoothly, he lifted Steve from his chair and threw him sideways into the pool. Steve was shouting even before he hit the water. Billy’s laughter could have woken the whole goddamned town.

There was a lot of swearing and splashing before Steve finally sputtered, “Asshole!”

Kicking off his boots, Billy didn’t answer. There was a certain vulnerability to Steve when his hair wasn’t all poofed up that thrilled him.

Steve nodded at the discarded boots, then jerked his head back to the water. “You coming?”

“Not yet.” Billy unbuttoned his shirt slowly, then let it fall beside him. Since he knew he was worth ogling, he took his time unbuckling his belt, unzipping his skin-tight jeans. They fell around his feet with his briefs and he stepped out of them. Wearing nothing but white gym socks, Billy crossed his arms over his chest and widened his stance and let Steve stare. He was completely still, barely moving his lips to say, “Hey, don’t drown in there.”

“...Right.”

Billy laughed, and his whole body moved with the sound. As soon as Steve seemed sufficiently flustered, Billy blew him a kiss that ended with his middle finger pointed upwards, turned, and walked inside the house. He was halfway up the stairs before he heard the tell-tale splashing that meant Steve had recovered enough to follow.

Finding Steve’s room was easy; it was one of the only rooms with the door open. It was pristine except for the laundry sitting on a chair and the homework open on his desk. Billy ignored the twist in his belly the sheer comfort and homeliness of the room caused and instead laid himself out on the bed. Turning his face into the pillows, he inhaled and rolled his head back, eyes closed. His back arched as his hand slipped down his abs and lower.

Feet pounded on the staircase and down the hall. Billy smirked but didn’t open his eyes. “Took you long enough,” he teased when he knew Steve was in the doorway.

Steve crawled on top of Billy and reached down to stay his hand for awhile. Billy’s breaths were quick and shallow as they kissed. Steve was still sticky with chlorine, with his hair damp but his skin warm. Billy slid his fingers beneath Steve’s waistband. Steve froze.

Billy groaned as he opened his eyes. “Dude.”

Steve pressed their foreheads together, already unzipping his own jeans. “No, yeah, I just, ah, I’m not ready for, like…” He cleared his throat.

“Dude,” Billy repeated. Twining their fingers together, he assured him, “I know, okay? I get it.” The words were soft. It was the kindest he’d ever been to a guy in bed.

“Not that we couldn’t try… eventually…” Steve blushed and hung his head between them.

Billy’s heart leapt. He didn’t have boyfriends. He had flings and fucks, never anything steady, and he hadn’t wanted something like that until now. And Steve, Steve was completely willing to start that with him. His face was starting to hurt from smiling so much. “You want my dick, Harrington?” he yelled, loud enough that Steve giggled and tried to put his hand over Billy’s mouth. Billy sucked on one of his fingers. Then he rolled them over so he was straddling Steve and could finish sliding off those soaking wet jeans.

Steve moaned as Billy licked down his body, stopping at the inside of his thigh. There he bit him, hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to be answered with a whimper. Steve grabbed Billy’s hair and pulled and Billy lost his damn mind. He’d sucked cock before when he was desperate enough for the feel and taste of it, when he’d forgotten how to hate himself for a couple hours, so he knew what Steve’s hands were telling him to do. He wasted no time in indulging that demand.

Steve jacked him off after, slow and sensual, a fucking tease if anyone ever asked Billy. Not that he’d ever admit what happened in that bed that night to anyone. He could already feel the sick self-loathing screaming inside his head. When he looked at Steve, though, it faded into background noise, a steady static that he could tune out until the sun came up.

He fell asleep in Steve Harrington’s arms.

Around 3 AM Billy woke in a cold sweat. He wrapped a blanket around himself, careful not to disturb Steve, and headed outside for a smoke. His fingers fumbled with the lighter and shook while he lit the cigarette, but he didn't think it was from the chill. He cursed.

Steve was awake when he got back. “Hey,” Billy whispered, sliding back beneath the covers.

“Hey.” They kissed, so tender Billy wanted to scream. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Billy lied. He smirked over his shoulder. “Up for round two?” They didn’t speak much again after that.

Five hours later, after some great sex but some lousy sleep, Billy hit fight-or-flight. Since he sure as hell had no intention of hurting Steve again, he left. The Camaro came alive in the cool blue winter morning, and Billy sped away before he could change his mind.

He wasn’t sure how he was going to face his father. He wasn’t sure he could.

Unfortunately, the decision was out of Billy’s hands. Neil Hargrove stormed out of the house the minute the engine cut, his face red and eyes bulging. Susan’s car wasn’t there, which meant Dad had no reason to put on his calm and collected show. Billy stayed in the car as long as he could, palms braced against against the steering column, trying to breathe. Then Neil’s fist connected with the window and Billy had to react.

Neil stepped back while Billy got out. Billy drew his shoulders tight, expecting the inevitable but also hoping to avoid his father’s wrath. “What are you, a fucking coward?” Neil hissed. “You stand and face me, son.” Billy did. “Where were you last night?”

“You told me Max didn’t need to be watched last night.”

_Smack._ He hit the car, not his son. “Answer. The question.”

Billy sniffed and blinked. He was holding onto Steve’s image like a lifeline. He just had to get through this interrogation, and then he was free for the day if he didn’t act up again. Free to see Steve again. “I had a date. Her parents weren’t home.” Billy knew he still smelled like sex.

“Her?” he pressed, sneering.

“Yes, sir.”

The man straightened and took a step backwards. “You have chores and you need to drive your sister to the arcade. That is your Saturday. Do you understand?”

Billy nodded. He was allowed inside after that. Cleaning his room first helped him avoid his father, who was picked up by Susan an hour later so they could spend their Saturday doing whatever the hell they enjoyed doing together. Billy figured they were both boring enough that it worked, and he’d learned long ago not to ask too many questions.

Max banged loudly around the kitchen when she got up to eat her breakfast and to remind Billy that she was awake and bored. Billy groaned, set down the weights he’d been absentmindedly pumping, and opened his door to glare at her. “You done?”

“The Palace opens soon,” she said through a mouthful of off-brand cheerios.

“Fine. I’m gonna shower first.” Billy took his time, remembering the shape of Steve’s body, letting his hands recreate the previous night. Even when he shut off the water with shaky breaths and stared into the mirror, he couldn’t feel the regret that usually coupled his hookups. He flirted with the idea of a smile, but settled on a scowl when Max knocked. “What?” he snapped, all of his previous pleasure fleeing at the sound of her voice.

"Can we go now?"

“What, d’you have a date?” Billy taunted.

She hesitated long enough that Billy wrapped a towel around his waist and whipped open the door, fuming. “A little honesty goes a long way, _Maxine._ ”

Standing her ground, Max crossed her arms and retorted, “It’s not a date. And where were _you_ last night, _William_?”

“You little bitch,” he snarled. Then he closed his eyes, inhaled, exhaled, and opened his eyes. “You know what? I don’t care. Be ready when I’m dressed.” It pleased him when she looked taken aback, and he pushed past her, heading straight to his closet for jeans, a denim jacket, and a black t-shirt.

He shoved his lighter and keys in his pocket. Max was waiting outside his door with her backpack slung over her shoulder. Quarters jingled inside of it whenever she moved. Eventually it annoyed Billy enough that he told her to keep still, which she said she could do if he drove a little slower, and they devolved into petty bickering the rest of the way. Billy had a headache by the time he screeched into The Palace’s crowded parking lot.

Max’s buddies were loitering by the bike rack, pretending to chain up their rides but really glancing over at the Camaro and craning their necks to see Max. Lucas was the most obvious; his voice was high when he talked to the other boys and he kept dropping his bike. Billy wanted to call his step-sister on her shit, maybe chew the loser squad out for this sneaky meet-up. As he turned to her, he saw she was already braced for his attack.

“We were going to stay here--”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Max.”

She paused, considering him. “Please don’t tell mom and dad.”

Billy revved the engine. “Give me a good reason not to take you home right now.” But she didn’t need to. A couple seconds after Billy’s ultimatum settled in around them, Steve and Dustin walked out of the arcade laden with snacks and sodas. Steve was either the coolest babysitter in the world or the biggest loser in Hawkins. Billy was inclined to think the latter when Steve tried to high-five the Wheeler kid and ended up dropping a soda can.

The can rolled across the lot in slow motion until it hit the Camaro’s front wheel. Billy felt sick. Max looked a little pale, too. She used Billy’s hesitation to fling her door open and jump outside like she was playing tag and the pavement was the safe zone. Billy honked, she dashed away, and then Steve, in his high-waisted jeans and ironically ugly Christmas sweater, rapped his knuckles on the window. Without an invitation, he slid into the passenger seat.

“Your kids are having a fit. What are you, mom of the year? At least tell me their parents pay you.”

“Missed you, too,” Steve said, because he always saw right through Billy’s bullshit. “Why’d you run off?” He leaned over, put his hand on Billy’s knee.

Billy flinched. Steve looked less offended than Billy had expected, though the way his shoulders slumped and face fell made Billy’s chest tight. Determined not to show it, he stared out the window instead. “Last night was a mistake.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said _bullshit._ You know, the tough guy thing was a hot for a while, but it gets old, okay? You’re scared shitless. _So what_? You think I’m all zen over here? Baby, I’ve got news for you: I am freaking. The hell. Out.” His voice softened and he touched Billy’s leg again. “I think it’s better if we freak out together.”

After a minute, Billy was able to turn Steve’s hand over and curl their fingers together and squeeze tight. “Me, too,” he murmured.

He’d remember the goofy smile Steve gave him for days after. “Come over tonight.”

Billy released a breath that made him sound like he was deflating. “Don’t kill my step-sister and I’ll consider it.”

Steve looked over his shoulder to the gathering of misfits. All their faces were stuck somewhere between disbelief and fascination. Only the Byers kid’s face was unreadable; it was calm and almost _knowing_ , which gave Billy the creeps. He flipped them all off. Steve grunted and knocked his hand down.

“Don’t be an asshole.”

His eyes glinted. “Yeah, yeah. Have her back here by five.” He grinned, lascivious and wicked. “Are you one of those hot babysitters that fucks the brother while the kiddos are asleep?” Their hands ended up much higher than Billy’s knee.

Steve blushed. “I’m getting out of your car now.”

He barely had time to shut the door before Billy sped away, tires leaving scorch marks on the asphalt, already daydreaming of another night spent at the Harrington house.

Max was returned promptly and safely by an obnoxiously smiley Steve, and she was spewing nonsense about a board game that made Billy want to shove needles in his ears. The louder he played Metallica, the louder she talked over it to explain the intricacies of whatever a mage was, so he tuned her out for most of the drive. Until, that is, she dropped the inevitable question.

“What’s going on with you and Steve?” She wasn’t a stupid kid. A bitch, yes, and a pain in Billy’s ass twenty-four-seven, but not stupid. She would have been easier to handle that way. “Well?” she prompted impatiently. “First you try to kill him, and now you’re friends, and I don’t get it, unless--”

Billy held up his finger between them to interrupt her. The car swerved. “Don’t.”

They arrived home surrounded by heavy silence. Max, always the first to leave the car, remained even as Billy pressed one foot impatiently on the gas pedal. He cleared his throat.

“You know how you look at him, right?” She didn’t give him time to answer. Her eyes were hard as she met his gaze, daring him to contradict her.  “Like how Lucas looks at me.”

Stunned, Billy let her go instead of arguing. The steering wheel took a few hits before he drove off into the night toward the only place that didn’t make him want to burn Hawkins, Indiana to ashes. 

Steve answered the door wearing nothing but boxers.

Billy raised his eyebrows. “I’m definitely dreaming.” He stubbed the cigarette he’d been using to calm his nerves and grabbed Steve’s arms to push him inside the house, barely remembering to shut the front door. Steve ended up on the opposite wall with Billy’s hands already under his waistband. Billy was just happy to get a taste of that fire in Steve again.

Their kisses were all tongue and teeth. It was breathless, messy. Billy dug his nails into Steve’s hips when they stuttered forward, and Steve gasped. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” he complained hoarsely. He grasped uselessly at Billy’s jacket. When Billy stepped backwards he made the most pitiful noise Billy had ever heard him make.

Laughing around his words, Billy pointed upstairs and said, “Let’s go.” It didn’t take much else for Steve to follow this time around.

In Steve’s bedroom, Billy told Steve to sit while he went right to Steve’s radio. “Is this _Madonna_?”  he asked incredulously as he flipped through Steve’s collection.

“Maybe,” Steve answered with a sheepish grin. He ran a hand through his hair and pulled his knees up to his chest.

“Right on.” Billy turned the volume all the way up, and then he was dancing. He rolled his shoulders back and let his head hang. His hips moved to the rhythm, dirty and fast; he felt so much anger break away from him with every movement. He mouthed the lyrics to Steve, his mouth a little dry, his jeans uncomfortably tight. Steve kept looking between Billy’s legs, then blushing and forcing himself to find Billy’s eyes instead. Billy laughed at him. Then he stripped on beat, jacket first, and Steve had to lay back on the bed with his tented boxers and ragged breaths. “You’re so easy,” Billy crooned as he straddled him.

“And you’re… mmm…” Billy shut him up with a languorous kiss, cradling his face in his hands even as he rutted against him. Steve’s boxers hit the floor. Billy was so hard it hurt.

Their bodies crashed down on each other like west coast waves, lifting and pulling with dizzying force. Billy could have drowned in him, would have done so willingly, forfeiting everything he had. Afterwards, when they lay in a pile of sweaty, tangled limbs, he wanted to tell Steve as much, but the words died in his throat.

Steve whispered, “Don’t leave me again.”

Billy didn’t. He spent the entire next day at Steve’s house, ignoring the looming threat of his father’s wrath and any responsibilities he may have been given. The St. Christopher pendant on his neck felt a little heavier as the hours of church came and went, but that too he ignored. They drank beer and swam and made out and argued and fooled around and cooked and ate their way through Sunday. Not once did anger threaten to consume him. He felt free. He felt like he belonged there.

Their exhaustion caught up to them around 11 PM, so they settled on the couch to flip through TV channels and drink Steve’s dad’s expensive beer. Billy laid on the couch and Steve laid on him, absentmindedly tracing Billy’s obliques as they tried to pick a show, bantering over the merits of _Knight Rider_. He gave up on the TV eventually to spend more time staring at Steve. It was a much more rewarding pastime.

“What do you want for Christmas?” Steve asked. Billy blinked at Steve, caught off guard. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been asked that. Steve laughed and buried his face in Billy’s bare chest, his hair tickling Billy’s skin and his breath warm against him. He pressed a kiss to Billy’s ribs before continuing, “Seriously.”

Billy maintained it was a combination of the afterglow and his annoyingly mushy crush on Steve Harrington that made him answer the way he did. He said the first thing that came to mind, the one and only wish he’d had for years. “To never go home again.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “I thought you and Max were cool? Cool-ish?”

Shaking his head, Billy dislodged Steve so he could sit up and find the mark on the back of his shoulder. “You see that?” Steve nodded, confused but attentive. “That’s what a cigarette does if you press the lit end on somebody’s skin.”

For being Mr. Perfect, Steve was pretty slow on the uptake. Billy figured the worst thing Steve could think of parents doing was being as absent as the Harringtons were; he would never imagine _this_. He was privileged enough to be far away from this shit. Billy was the asshole who’d dragged those problems into Hawkins’ daylight.

He grabbed Steve’s hand--far too rough; he was getting bad again--and pressed their fingers together over the scar. “My dad did that to me after I got caught with a guy in Cali.”

Steve gasped. “Christ, Billy--”

The memory came flooding back, and with it, tears pricked. Billy tried to gulp them down, the pain of that effort making his head pound.  “There was this kid Jack, okay? I’d known him forever. Shit.” He gritted his teeth. “Let him fuck me in the backseat and we were parked on the beach. Fucking cop comes by, gives us shit, makes me drive home and he follows with Jack in his car, locked in the back like some criminal.” He paused as he pulled his knees to his chest, remembering how small he’d felt in that moment.

“Cop drags me to the door and tells my dad what happened, whole time with this huge grin on his face; God, they both fucking _hated_ me. What I’d done. Whatever. No need to get technical when you call someone a fag.” Billy was shaking. “Max and Susan weren’t home. Dad… he almost killed me. Eyes so swollen I couldn’t see, broken rib, that burn. Next day, he gives Susan some bullshit about we should start life fresh away from all their exes, and I’m lying through my teeth about some made-up guy I almost beat to death the night before--like, like I woulda looked that bad if I’d won that fight, _ha_ \--so Dad can say we should leave that behind, too. So... hello to hellhole-Hawkins.”

There was nothing comfortable about the silence that descended on them after Billy finished. Billy couldn’t decide if he wanted to be held or to be as far away from Steve as possible. Apparently Steve didn’t know either; every time he reached out his hand to touch Billy, he dropped it midair. When he finally did touch him, however, it was to lunge forward and wrap Billy in his arms. He kissed Billy’s cheeks where a few tears had fallen. He kissed him, tasting like salt and alcohol.

“I… I didn’t realize…” He sounded heartbroken, horrified.

“No one does,” Billy hissed. “No one gives a fuck. You all love pretending you’re normal.”

“We’re not.”

“No shit, Steve. And you can take your pity and shove it up your ass.” Billy regretted telling him already. It was one of his best-kept secrets, yet Steve had him spilling his guts like they were just so easy to shovel back inside that gaping wound. He made himself sick.

“Don’t do that. Hey, don’t push me away.” Steve held tighter as Billy tried to stand. Billy was stronger, could have shoved him easily and been done with it. But then Steve was kissing his scar and his neck and his lips, and every terrible thought Billy harbored about ditching Steve vanished with a shift of his hips and a soft, “C’mere, Billy.”

Billy still didn’t think he deserved something as good as Steve, wasn’t sure if he could forgive himself for letting it happen, but he was damned either way. He’d at least get a few more kisses out of it.

**Author's Note:**

> If you ever feel so inclined, I have started a ko-fi should anyone wish to support me. Here is the link! https://ko-fi.com/U7U0GEE2


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